Sunday, March 13, 2016

The
Lord of the Flies (LOTF), published in 1954, achieved such popularity
for the author that it became a standard book prescribed for the GCSE
in UK, and one of the KRG readers had done it for the Senior
Cambridge. Another reader of an earlier vintage had to read a vastly superior novel,Treasure
Island, for the same exam.

The
author himself thought of LOTF as a minor work of his, and while
thankful for the freedom it gave him, was not entirely welcoming of
the notoriety. He was awarded the Man Booker prize in 1980 for the
novel Rites of Passage, the
first of a trilogy of novels of the sea. And wonderful to say, the
Nobel Prize for Literature in 1983.

Joe, Ammu, Shoba, Sunil

Certain
things are worth noting about this novel. The fruits the children eat
are never given their names. Palm leaves are called 'feathers,' not
in a metaphoric way; this is an unknown usage, not recorded in the OED,
which points to the author's unfamiliarity with tropical foliage. The
spectacles of Piggy, the boy suffering from myopia, are used to make
a fire by focusing the sun's rays – which is actually impossible
with the concave lenses used to correct for myopia.

The
degeneration of the children's behaviour is meant to suggest that
evil overtakes good when a system to preserve order ceases to exist.
On the evidence of this novel the impulses toward sharing
responsibility, purposeful action, orderly voicing of opinion and so
on are drowned by the thirst for bloody adventure, killing, painting
faces, ululation of battle cries, and such other blood sport.

Piggy with specs cracked

The
suggestion that the introduction of girls into the mix would have
mitigated the violence in the children's society was immediately
rejected by a woman reader who feared that it would only result in rape
being added to the crimes of bullying and murder.

Next
is an all-Shakespeare Poetry sitting, on
Fri, Apr 22,
the day before the Bard's 400th Death Anniversary.

Reading
of the novel The
Narrow Road to the Deep North
by Richard Flanagan will take palce Mon,
May 23.

William
Golding (1911-1993) won the Booker Prize in 1980 and the Nobel Prize
for Literature in 1983

Kavita
– IntroductionWilliam
Golding was born in 1911 in Cornwall, UK, and educated in Marlborough
grammar school where his father was a science master.
Golding went to Oxford and studied natural sciences for two years
before taking up English Litt. When he graduated he published a book
of poems in 1934. He was briefly a schoolmaster before joining the
Navy in 1940. He saw plenty of naval action and returned after the
war to take up school-teaching again in Salisbury from 1945-62.

While
he was there he wrote the Lord of the Flies. It was initially
rejected by Faber and Faber, but later accepted by the intervention
of a new junior editor and published in Sept 1954 with a few changes.
His first novel made him a success and he was able to resign from
school-teaching in 1961, visiting USA as a faculty member at a
college. He continued publishing novels such as The Inheritors
(1955), Pincher Martin (1956), Free Fall (1959),
and The Spire (1964). In 1980 he published the first of a
trilogy of novels consisting of Rites of Passage (1980), Close
Quarters (1987), and Fire Down Below (1989). Rites of
Passage won him the Man Booker prize in 1980.

In
1983 he was awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature, and the award was
"an unexpected and even contentious choice", according to
the Oxford Dictionary of National Biography. See

Golding
died of a heart attack in Sept 1993 after settling in Truro,
Cornwall.
It is good to learn from a review that Golding thought of the book,
LOTF, which relieved him of financial worries for the rest of his
life as a minor work. Many readers would agree:

Priya said if it were not
for two boys in the novel (she means Ralph and Piggy, I suppose) the
whole lot of them would have gone berserk. When one of the readers
observed the absence of girls in the novel, KumKum thought it just as
well, for she claimed they would have been raped. Thommo said the
only female voice in the book is Piggy's aunt. It is a dark book,
everyone agreed, but nothing much happens for the first hundred
pages. They play-act imitating the wild boars they hunt and end up
killing one of their number. Disorder is not expected of proper
British children, as the naval officer implies who rescues them at
the end of the novel. Thommo said that Jallianwalla Bagh massacre was
not so much condemned by the British authorities for its barbarism,
as for having demonstrated how contrary to British tradition the
commanding officer, Dyer, acted!

Themes — Click on image to enlarge

Kavita read about the
smaller boys known as 'littluns' who mostly lived their own life,
punctuated by eating fruits and having bouts of diarrhoea, (being
'caught short' as the British euphemism puts it for needing to go
fast to the toilet for the big job).

Pamela

The
passage has a stand-off between Ralph and Jack. Ralph, the nominal
chief tries to maintain order and preserve a permanent film of smoke
over the island in order to be seen and rescued by a passing ship.
Jack challenges his authority and considers it more essential that
they hunt and kill pigs for meat in their diet. This contest of wills
and the competition for followers in each group brings on the acts of
beastliness and inhumanity that overtake the island's boys and leads
to escalating violence and murder.

KumKum

The
littluns are having nightmares and begin to imagine twisty things
fighting and big horrid shapes moving about in the woods. Ralph tries
to calm them and reprimands Simon for going missing; he was 'taken
short' and needed to go into the woods. There are two groups; one is
a choir group who've landed wearing black – which said Thommo can
only mean it's Passion Week, close to Easter. Then there's the
frightening aspect of a pilot who bailed out dangling amid the trees
from a parachute. Sunil said Jack has the makings of a thuggish
dictator.

Thommo
referred to another film in which a group of fellows is stranded on
an island and one of them is about to eat a fruit and it is knocked
out of his hand by a black actor who knows the fruit is poisonous. A
bird may eat it for they have immunity, but not humans.

Priya

The
anxiety over ghosts and unknown beings on the island continues to
trouble the boys. 'Supposing things are watching us and waiting' is
the expression of their core anxiety. Piggy tells Ralph “If Jack
was chief he’d have all hunting and no fire. We’d be here till we
died.” Simon tells Ralph he's got to go on being chief else they
have no hope of being rescued and besides Jack would hurt the
children close to Ralph.

And
then there's the sad hopeless crying for aunties and parents to be
there. In one of their wailings a chap gives out his entire postal
address as if by giving it he would be protected. It's like a soldier
being asked for his name, rank and serial number, and rattling off
his entire Aadhar card, said Thommo! Priya said they are still
innocent children, but children can be vicious to each other.

ThommoPiggy
and Ralph are trying to usher democracy via the use of the conch.
People are not prepared to listen to Ralph past a certain point.
Anarchy reigns, and Jack tries to muscle in. Joe suggested that
leaders getting started need goondas
to enforce their commands, even those who want to bring about
democracy. The kids are also pining for the order that elders can
impose on life.

There
was a comparison to Donald Trump at this point, the Republican
contender for Presidential nomination in USA, who is popular with the
disenfranchised voters in the primaries, but unpopular with the party
high-command who want to control him and can't. He is not from the
Establishment.

JoeThe
passage dealt with one of the wilfully violent scenes at the end. As
Jack's gang of hunter children hold their castle of rock, fortified
with boulders that can be rolled downhill against any invaders,
Piggy and Ralph show up to reason with them about keeping a fire
going so they can be rescued. Piggy is Ralph's faithful chela,
he cries out: “Which is better—to be a pack of painted Indians
like you are, or to be sensible like Ralph is?” He is met with
rocks. Ultimately a bigger one levered off the face of the cliff and
rolled downhill gets Piggy between the chin and knee; he gets thrown
sideways and comes careening downhill until his head lands on a rock
and his skull splits open. All this is done to great shrieking among
Jack's hunter-killer children.

The
tally of killed is three children by the end of the story, and one
goes missing in the forest fire.

Shoba

This
is the ending of the novel when an officer from a naval ship, a
cruiser, we are told helpfully, arrives on the island, having seen the
smoke, and rescues them. The officer is taken aback that the children
didn't lead the proper disciplined lives of British children with an
official monitor giving commands and so on. That's the craziness of
adults showing, as though order and discipline is the natural state
of humans – it isn't among nations of adults and their leaders, so
why expect children to suddenly discover ahimsa?
And what's the cruiser off to do – fight a proper British war
somewhere and cause mayhem.

Piggy
is acknowledged as the 'true, wise friend,' by Ralph.

At
this point KumKum mentioned inter
alia being
scolded into submission by authorities in the past. Thommo laughed
and asked Joe if he was on to this? Joe replied, yes, but submission
only at the hands of high officials!

SunilRalph
and Piggy are trying to come to terms with the killing of Simon in
that gathering by the fire with Jack's people, the hunters. They feel
remorse. They want to imagine that it was an accident, and they had
both gone away before the actual killing took place.

Simon
plays an enigmatic role. He's the guy who goes and hides in the
tangled mass of creepers and sees the pig being killed and later
observes the head of the pig impaled on a stick with flies buzzing
all around it ('The Lord of the Flies'). Simon divines from that
pig's head, that the beast of the island is Beelzebub (the Biblical
name for the devil, the prince of the fallen angels, meaning Lord of
the Flies). Moreover, the beast is in all of them. He fails to
convince the others and is killed, and for Ralph it is the end of his
power.

PreetiThis
is the dramatic passage where
Jack's people fall upon Simon who is trying to tell them about his
discovery of the body of a pilot hanging from a parachute up in the
hills, and his epiphany that the beast they were anxious about is in
all of them; it is nothing the devilish instinct of evil and
destruction. But he gets no hearing and is drowned out by the chorus
of voices crying out repeatedly:

“Kill
the beast! Cut his throat! Spill his blood!”

Jack's
boys work themselves up into a frenzy as they chant this cry and
leapt “on to the beast, screamed, struck, bit, tore.” It's a
classic scene of mob violence; what each would shudder to do alone,
none holds back from taking part once the anonymity of the mob is assured. Preeti
chose this passage well to illustrate how the novel sheds light on
evil.

Sunil
drew an analogy between this and the ragging, the ritual humiliation
of university students by physical and verbal bullying in colleges.
He mentioned a student being thrown off a train in the process.
Kavita from her knowledge told of an engineering college in Manipal
where gangs of Punjabis, Biharis, and Malayalis were involved in
fighting with knives.

Readings

Kavita
p.
62The
smaller boys were known now by the generic title of “littluns.”
The decrease in size, from Ralph down, was gradual; and though there
was a dubious region inhabited by Simon and Robert and Maurice,
nevertheless no one had any difficulty in recognizing biguns at one
end and littluns at the other. The undoubted littluns, those aged
about six, led a quite distinct, and at the same time intense, life
of their own. They ate most of the day, picking fruit where they
could reach it and not particular about ripeness and quality. They
were used now to stomach-aches and a sort of chronic diarrhoea. They
suffered untold terrors in the dark and huddled together for comfort.
Apart from food and sleep, they found time for play, aimless and
trivial, in the white sand by the bright water. They cried for their
mothers much less often than might have been expected; they were very
brown, and filthily dirty. They obeyed the summons of the conch,
partly because Ralph blew it, and he was big enough to be a link with
the adult world of authority; and partly because they enjoyed the
entertainment of the assemblies. But otherwise they seldom bothered
with the biguns and their passionately emotional and corporate life
was their own.

Pamela
p.
202

He
held out his spear and pointed at the savages. “Your only hope is
keeping a signal fire going as long as there’s light to see. Then
maybe a ship’ll notice the smoke and come and rescue us and take us
home. But without that smoke we’ve got to wait till some ship comes
by accident. We might wait years; till we were old—”

The
shivering, silvery, unreal laughter of the savages sprayed out and
echoed away. A gust of rage shook Ralph. His voice cracked.

“Don’t
you understand, you painted fools? Sam, Eric, Piggy and me— we
aren’t enough. We tried to keep the fire going, but we couldn’t.
And then you, playing at hunting. . . .”

He
pointed past them to where the trickle of smoke dispersed in the
pearly air.

“Look
at that! Call that a signal fire? That’s a cooking fire. Now you’ll
eat and there’ll be no smoke. Don’t you understand? There may be
a ship out there—”

He
paused, defeated by the silence and the painted anonymity of the
group guarding the entry. Jack opened a pink mouth and addressed
Samneric, who were between him and his tribe.

“You
two. Get back.” No one answered him. The twins, puzzled, looked at
each other; while Piggy, reassured by the cessation of violence,
stood up carefully. Jack glanced back at Ralph and then at the twins.

“Grab
them!” No one moved. Jack shouted angrily.

“I
said ‘grab them’!” The painted group moved round Samneric
nervously and unhandily. Once more the silvery laughter scattered.

Samneric
protested out of the heart of civilization.

“Oh,
I say!” “—honestly!”

Their
spears were taken from them.

“Tie
them up!”

Ralph
cried out hopelessly against the black and green mask.

“Jack!”

“Go
on. Tie them.”

Now
the painted group felt the otherness of Samneric, felt the power in
their own hands. They felled the twins clumsily and excitedly. Jack
was inspired. He knew that Ralph would attempt a rescue. He struck in
a humming circle behind him and Ralph only just parried the blow.
Beyond them the tribe and the twins were a loud and writhing heap.
Piggy crouched again. Then the twins lay, astonished, and the tribe
stood round them. Jack turned to Ralph and spoke between his teeth.

“See?
They do what I want.”

There
was silence again. The twins lay, inexpertly tied up, and the tribe
watched Ralph to see what he would do. He numbered them through his
fringe, glimpsed the ineffectual smoke.

His
temper broke. He screamed at Jack.

“You’re
a beast and a swine and a bloody, bloody thief!”

He
charged.

Jack,
knowing this was the crisis, charged too. They met with a jolt and
bounced apart. Jack swung with his fist at Ralph and caught him on
the ear. Ralph hit Jack in the stomach and made him grunt. Then they
were facing each other again, panting and furious, but unnerved by
each other’s ferocity. They became aware of the noise that was the
background to this fight, the steady shrill cheering of the tribe
behind them.

Piggy’s
voice penetrated to Ralph.

“Let
me speak.”

He
was standing in the dust of the fight, and as the tribe saw his
intention the shrill cheer changed to a steady booing.

Piggy
held up the conch and the booing sagged a little, then came up again
to strength.

“I
got the conch!”

He
shouted. “I tell you, I got the conch!”

Surprisingly,
there was silence now; the tribe were curious to hear what amusing
thing he might have to say.

Silence
and pause; but in the silence a curious air-noise, close by Ralph’s
head. He gave it half his attention—and there it was again; a faint
“Zup!” Someone was throwing stones: Roger was dropping them, his
one hand still on the lever. Below him, Ralph was a shock of hair and
Piggy a bag of fat.

“I
got this to say. You’re acting like a crowd of kids.” The booing
rose and died again as Piggy lifted the white, magic shell.

“Which
is better—to be a pack of painted Indians like you are, or to be
sensible like Ralph is?”

A
great clamor rose among the savages. Piggy shouted again.

“Which
is better—to have rules and agree, or to hunt and kill?”

Again
the clamor and again—“Zup!” Ralph shouted against the noise.

“Which
is better, law and rescue, or hunting and breaking things up?”

Now
Jack was yelling too and Ralph could no longer make himself heard.
Jack had backed right against the tribe and they were a solid mass of
menace that bristled with spears.

KumKum
p.84
(450 words)

“So
let’s hear from that littlun who talked about a beast and perhaps
we can show him how silly he is.”

The
littluns began to jabber among themselves, then one stood forward.

“What’s
your name?”

“Phil.”

For a
littlun he was self-confident, holding out his hands, cradling the
conch as Ralph did, looking round at them to collect their attention
before he spoke.

“Last
night I had a dream, a horrid dream, fighting with things. I was
outside the shelter by myself, fighting with things, those twisty
things in the trees.”

He
paused, and the other littluns laughed in horrified sympathy.

“Then
I was frightened and I woke up. And I was outside the shelter by
myself in the dark and the twisty things had gone away.”

The
vivid horror of this, so possible and so nakedly terrifying, held
them all silent. The child’s voice went piping on from behind the
white conch.

“And
I was frightened and started to call out for Ralph and then I saw
something moving among the trees, something big and horrid.”

He
paused, half-frightened by the recollection yet proud of the
sensation he was creating.

“That
was a nightmare,” said Ralph. “He was walking in his sleep.”

The
assembly murmured in subdued agreement.

The
littlun shook his head stubbornly.

“I
was asleep when the twisty things were fighting and when they went
away I was awake, and I saw something big and horrid moving in the
trees.”

Ralph
held out his hands for the conch and the littlun sat down.

“You
were asleep. There wasn’t anyone there. How could anyone be
wandering about in the forest at night? Was anyone? Did anyone go
out?”

There
was a long pause while the assembly grinned at the thought of anyone
going out in the darkness. Then Simon stood up and Ralph looked at
him in astonishment.

“You!
What were you mucking about in the dark for?”

Simon
grabbed the conch convulsively.

“I
wanted—to go to a place—a place I know.”

“What
place?”

“Just
a place I know. A place in the jungle.” He hesitated.

Jack
settled the question for them with that contempt in his voice that
could sound so funny and so final.

“He
was taken short.”

With
a feeling of humiliation on Simon’s behalf, Ralph took back the
conch, looking Simon sternly in the face as he did so.

“Well,
don’t do it again. Understand? Not at night. There’s enough silly
talk about beasts, without the littluns seeing you gliding about like
a—”

The
derisive laughter that rose had fear in it and condemnation. Simon
opened his mouth to speak but Ralph had the conch, so he backed to
his seat.

The
dancing, chanting boys had worked themselves away till their sound
was nothing but a wordless rhythm.

“But
s’pose they don’t make sense? Not here, on this island? Supposing
things are watching us and waiting?”

Ralph
shuddered violently and moved closer to Piggy, so that they bumped
frighteningly.

“You
stop talking like that! We got enough trouble, Ralph, an’ I’ve
had as much as I can stand. If there is ghosts—”

“I
ought to give up being chief. Hear ’em.”

“Oh
lord! Oh no!”

Piggy
gripped Ralph’s arm.

“If
Jack was chief he’d have all hunting and no fire. We’d be here
till we died.”

His
voice ran up to a squeak.

“Who’s
that sitting there?”

“Me.
Simon.”

“Fat
lot of good we are,” said Ralph. “Three blind mice. I’ll give
up.” “If you give up,” said Piggy, in an appalled whisper,
“what ’ud happen to me?”

“Nothing.”

“He
hates me. I dunno why. If he could do what he wanted—you’re all
right, he respects you. Besides—you’d hit him.”

“You
were having a nice fight with him just now.”

“I
had the conch,” said Piggy simply. “I had a right to speak.”

Simon
stirred in the dark.

”Go
on being chief.“

”You
shut up, young Simon! Why couldn’t you say there wasn’t a beast?‘

“I’m
scared of him,” said Piggy, “and that’s why I know him. If
you’re scared of someone you hate him but you can’t stop thinking
about him. You kid yourself he’s all right really, an’ then when
you see him again; it’s like asthma an’ you can’t breathe. I
tell you what. He hates you too, Ralph—”

“Me?
Why me?”

“I
dunno. You got him over the fire; an’ you’re chief an’ he
isn’t.”

“But
he’s, he’s, Jack Merridew!”

“I
been in bed so much I done some thinking. I know about people. I know
about me. And him. He can’t hurt you: but if you stand out of the
way he’d hurt the next thing. And that’s me.”

“Piggy’s
right, Ralph. There’s you and Jack. Go on being chief.”

“We’re
all drifting and things are going rotten. At home there was always a
grown-up. Please, sir, please, miss; and then you got an answer. How
I wish!”

“I
wish my auntie was here.”

“I
wish my father. . . Oh, what’s the use?‘

“Keep
the fire going.” The dance was over and the hunters were going back
to the shelters.

“Grown-ups
know things,” said Piggy. “They ain’t afraid of the dark.
They’d meet and have tea and discuss. Then things ’ud be all
right—”

“They
wouldn’t set fire to the island. Or lose—”

“They’d
build a ship—”

The
three boys stood in the darkness, striving unsuccessfully to convey
the majesty of adult life.

“They
wouldn’t quarrel—”

“Or
break my specs—”

“Or
talk about a beast—”

“If
only they could get a message to us,” cried Ralph desperately. “If
only they could send us something grown-up.. . . a sign or
something.”

A
thin wail out of the darkness chilled them and set them grabbing for
each other. Then the wail rose, remote and unearthly, and turned to
an inarticulate gibbering. Percival Wemys Madison, of the Vicarage,
Harcourt St. Anthony, lying in the long grass, was living through
circumstances in which the incantation of his address was powerless
to help him.

Thommo

Daring,
indignant, Piggy took the conch.

“That’s
what I said! I said about our meetings and things and then you said
shut up–”

His
voice lifted into the whine of virtuous recrimination. They stirred
and began to shout him down.

“You
said you wanted a small fire and you been and built a pile like a
hayrick. If I say anything,” cried Piggy, with bitter realism, “you
say shut up; but if Jack or Maurice or Simon–”

He
paused in the tumult, standing, looking beyond them and down the
unfriendly side of the mountain to the great patch where they had
found dead wood. Then he laughed so strangely that they were hushed,
looking at the flash of his spectacles in astonishment. They followed
his gaze to find the sour joke.

“You
got your small fire all right.”

Smoke
was rising here and there among the creepers that festooned the dead
or dying trees. As they watched, a flash of fire appeared at the root
of one wisp, and then the smoke thickened. Small flames stirred at
the trunk of a tree and crawled away through leaves and brushwood,
dividing and increasing. One patch touched a tree trunk and scrambled
up like a bright squirrel. The smoke increased, sifted, rolled
outwards. The squirrel leapt on the wings of the wind and clung to
another standing tree, eating downwards. Beneath the dark canopy of
leaves and smoke the fire laid hold on the forest and began to gnaw.
Acres of black and yellow smoke rolled steadily toward the sea. At
the sight of the flames and the irresistible course of the fire, the
boys broke into shrill, excited cheering. The flames, as though they
were a kind of wild life, crept as a jaguar creeps on its belly
toward a line of birch-like saplings that fledged an outcrop of the
pink rock. They flapped at the first of the trees, and the branches
grew a brief foliage of fire. The heart of flame leapt nimbly across
the gap between the trees and then went swinging and flaring along
the whole row of them. Beneath the capering boys a quarter of a mile
square of forest was savage with smoke and flame. The separate noises
of the fire merged into a drum-roll that seemed to shake the
mountain.

“You
got your small fire all right.”

Startled,
Ralph realized that the boys were falling still and silent, feeling
the beginnings of awe at the power set free below them. The knowledge
and the awe made him savage.

“Oh,
shut up!”

“I
got the conch,” said Piggy, in a hurt voice. “I got a right to
speak.”

They
looked at him with eyes that lacked interest in what they saw, and
cocked ears at the drum-roll of the fire. Piggy glanced nervously
into hell and cradled the conch.

“We
got to let that burn out now. And that was our firewood.”

He
licked his lips.

“There
ain’t nothing we can do. We ought to be more careful. I’m
scared–”

Jack
dragged his eyes away from the fire.

“You’re
always scared. Yah–Fatty!”

“I
got the conch,” said Piggy bleakly. He turned to Ralph. “I got
the conch, ain’t I Ralph?”

Unwillingly
Ralph turned away from the splendid, awful sight.

“What’s
that?”

“The
conch. I got a right to speak.”

The
twins giggled together.

“We
wanted smoke–”

“Now
look–!”

A
pall stretched for miles away from the island. All the boys except
Piggy started to giggle; presently they were shrieking with laughter.

Piggy
lost his temper.

“I
got the conch! Just you listen! The first thing we ought to have made
was shelters down there by the beach. It wasn’t half cold down
there in the night. But the first time Ralph says ’fire’ you goes
howling and screaming up this here mountain. Like a pack of kids!”

By
now they were listening to the tirade.

“How
can you expect to be rescued if you don’t put first things first
and act proper?”

He
took off his glasses and made as if to put down the conch; but the
sudden motion toward it of most of the older boys changed his mind.
He tucked the shell under his arm, and crouched back on a rock.

“Then
when you get here you build a bonfire that isn’t no use. Now you
been and set the whole island on fire. Won’t we look funny if the
whole island burns up? Cooked fruit, that’s what we’ll have to
eat, and roast pork. And that’s nothing to laugh at! You said Ralph
was chief and you don’t give him time to think. Then when he says
something you rush off, like, like–”

He
paused for breath, and the fire growled at them.

“And
that’s not all. Them kids. The little ’uns. Who took any notice
of ’em? Who knows how many we got?”

Ralph
took a sudden step forward.

“I
told you to. I told you to get a list of names!”

“How
could I,” cried Piggy indignantly, “all by myself? They waited
for two minutes, then they fell in the sea; they went into the
forest; they just scattered everywhere. How was I to know which was
which?”

Ralph
licked pale lips.

“Then
you don’t know how many of us there ought to be?”

“How
could I with them little ’uns running round like insects? Then when
you three came back, as soon as you said make a fire, they all ran
away, and I never had a chance–”

“That’s
enough!” said Ralph sharply, and snatched back the conch. “If you
didn’t you didn’t.”

“–then
you come up here an’ pinch my specs–”

Jack
turned on him.

“You
shut up!” “–and them little ’uns was wandering about down
there where the fire is. How d’you know they aren’t still there?”

Piggy
stood up and pointed to the smoke and flames. A murmur rose among the
boys and died away. Something strange was happening to Piggy, for he
was gasping for breath.

“That
little ’un–” gasped Piggy– “him with the mark on his face,
I don’t see him. Where is he now?”

The
crowd was as silent as death.

“Him
that talked about the snakes. He was down there–”

A
tree exploded in the fire like a bomb. Tall swathes of creepers rose
for a moment into view, agonized, and went down again. The little
boys screamed at them.

Joe
(526
words) p.179 bottom Ch 11 Piggy
is slain

Piggy’s
voice penetrated to Ralph.

“Let
me speak.”

He
was standing in the dust of the fight, and as the tribe saw his
intention the shrill cheer changed to a steady booing.

Piggy
held up the conch and the booing sagged a little, then came up again
to strength.

“I
got the conch!”

He
shouted.

“I
tell you, I got the conch!”

Surprisingly,
there was silence now; the tribe were curious to hear what amusing
thing he might have to say.

Silence
and pause; but in the silence a curious air-noise, close by Ralph’s
head. He gave it half his attention—and there it was again; a faint
“Zup!” Someone was throwing stones: Roger was dropping them, his
one hand still on the lever. Below him, Ralph was a shock of hair and
Piggy a bag of fat.

“I
got this to say. You’re acting like a crowd of kids.” The booing
rose and died again as Piggy lifted the white, magic shell.

“Which
is better—to be a pack of painted Indians like you are, or to be
sensible like Ralph is?”

A
great clamor rose among the savages. Piggy shouted again.

“Which
is better—to have rules and agree, or to hunt and kill?”

Again
the clamor and again—“Zup!” Ralph shouted against the noise.

“Which
is better, law and rescue, or hunting and breaking things up?”

Now
Jack was yelling too and Ralph could no longer make himself heard.
Jack had backed right against the tribe and they were a solid mass of
menace that bristled with spears. The intention of a charge was
forming among them; they were working up to it and the neck would be
swept clear. Ralph stood facing them, a little to one side, his spear
ready. By him stood Piggy still holding out the talisman, the
fragile, shining beauty of the shell. The storm of sound beat at
them, an incantation of hatred. High overhead, Roger, with a sense of
delirious abandonment, leaned all his weight on the lever.

Ralph
heard the great rock before he saw it. He was aware of a jolt in the
earth that came to him through the soles of his feet, and the
breaking sound of stones at the top of the cliff. Then the monstrous
red thing bounded across the neck and he flung himself flat while the
tribe shrieked.

The
rock struck Piggy a glancing blow from chin to knee; the conch
exploded into a thousand white fragments and ceased to exist. Piggy,
saying nothing, with no time for even a grunt, traveled through the
air sideways from the rock, turning over as he went. The rock bounded
twice and was lost in the forest. Piggy fell forty feet and landed on
his back across the square red rock in the sea. His head opened and
stuff came out and turned red. Piggy’s arms and legs twitched a
bit, like a pig’s after it has been killed. Then the sea breathed
again in a long, slow sigh, the water boiled white and pink over the
rock; and when it went, sucking back again, the body of Piggy was
gone.

Dumbly,
Ralph shook his head. He turned a halfpace on the sand. A semicircle
of little boys, their bodies streaked with colored clay, sharp sticks
in their hands, were standing on the beach making no noise at all.

“Fun
and games,” said the officer.

The
fire reached the coconut palms by the beach and swallowed them
noisily. A flame, seemingly detached, swung like an acrobat and
licked up the palm heads on the platform. The sky was black.

The
officer grinned cheerfully at Ralph.

“We
saw your smoke. What have you been doing? Having a war or something?”

Ralph
nodded.

The
officer inspected the little scarecrow in front of him. The kid
needed a bath, a haircut, a nose-wipe and a good deal of ointment.

“Nobody
killed, I hope? Any dead bodies?”

“Only
two. And they’ve gone.”

The
officer leaned down and looked closely at Ralph.

“Two?
Killed?”

Ralph
nodded again. Behind him, the whole island was shuddering with flame.
The officer knew, as a rule, when people were telling the truth. He
whistled softly.

Other
boys were appearing now, tiny tots some of them, brown, with the
distended bellies of small savages. One of them came close to the
officer and looked up.

“I’m,
I’m—” But there was no more to come. Percival Wemys Madison
sought in his head for an incantation that had faded clean away.

The
officer turned back to Ralph.

“We’ll
take you off. How many of you are there?”

Ralph
shook his head. The officer looked past him to the group of painted
boys.

“Who’s
boss here?”

“I
am,” said Ralph loudly. A little boy who wore the remains of an
extraordinary black cap on his red hair and who carried the remains
of a pair of spectacles at his waist, started forward, then changed
his mind and stood still.

“We
saw your smoke. And you don’t know how many of you there are?”

“No,
sir.”

“I
should have thought,” said the officer as he visualized the search
before him, “I should have thought that a pack of British
boys—you’re all British, aren’t you?—would have been able to
put up a better show than that—I mean—”

“It
was like that at first,” said Ralph, “before things—”

He
stopped. “We were together then—”

The
officer nodded helpfully.

“I
know. Jolly good show. Like the Coral Island.”

Ralph
looked at him dumbly. For a moment he had a fleeting picture of the
strange glamour that had once invested the beaches. But the island
was scorched up like dead wood—Simon was dead—and Jack had. . . .
The tears began to flow and sobs shook him. He gave himself up to
them now for the first time on the island; great, shuddering spasms
of grief that seemed to wrench his whole body. His voice rose under
the black smoke before the burning wreckage of the island; and
infected by that emotion, the other little boys began to shake and
sob too. And in the middle of them, with filthy body, matted hair,
and unwiped nose, Ralph wept for the end of innocence, the darkness
of man’s heart, and the fall through the air of the true, wise
friend called Piggy.

The
officer, surrounded by these noises, was moved and a little
embarrassed. He turned away to give them time to pull themselves
together; and waited, allowing his eyes to rest on the trim cruiser
in the distance.

Sunil
Beginning
of Ch 10

Piggy
eyed the advancing figure carefully. Nowadays he sometimes found that
he saw more clearly if he removed his glasses and shifted the one
lens to the other eye; but even through the good eye, after what had
happened, Ralph remained unmistakably Ralph. He came now out of the
coconut trees, limping, dirty, with dead leaves hanging from his
shock of yellow hair. One eye was a slit in his puffy cheek and a
great scab had formed on his right knee. He paused for a moment and
peered at the figure on the platform.

“Piggy?
Are you the only one left?”

“There’s
some littluns.” “They don’t count. No biguns?”

“Oh—Samneric.
They’re collecting wood.”

“Nobody
else?” “Not that I know of.”

Ralph
climbed on to the platform carefully. The coarse grass was still worn
away where the assembly used to sit; the fragile white conch still
gleamed by the polished seat. Ralph sat down in the grass facing the
chief’s seat and the conch. Piggy knelt at his left, and for a long
minute there was silence.

At
last Ralph cleared his throat and whispered something.

Piggy
whispered back. “What you say?”

Ralph
spoke up.

“Simon.”

Piggy
said nothing but nodded, solemnly. They continued to sit, gazing with
impaired sight at the chief’s seat and the glittering lagoon. The
green light and the glossy patches of sunshine played over their
befouled bodies.

At
length Ralph got up and went to the conch. He took the shell
caressingly with both hands and knelt, leaning against the trunk.

“We
was scared!” said Piggy excitedly. “Anything might have happened.
It wasn’t—what you said.”

He
was gesticulating, searching for a formula.

“Oh,
Piggy!” Ralph’s voice, low and stricken, stopped Piggy’s
gestures. He bent down and waited. Ralph, cradling the conch, rocked
himself to and fro.

“Don’t
you understand, Piggy? The things we did—”

“He
may still be—”

“No.”

“P’raps
he was only pretending—”

Piggy’s
voice trailed off at the sight of Ralph’s face.

“You
were outside. Outside the circle. You never really came in. Didn’t
you see what we—what they did?”

There
was loathing, and at the same time a kind of feverish excitement, in
his voice. “Didn’t you see, Piggy?”

“Not
all that well. I only got one eye now. You ought to know that,
Ralph.”

Ralph
continued to rock to and fro.

“It
was an accident,” said Piggy suddenly, “that’s what it was. An
accident.” His voice shrilled again. “Coming in the dark—he
hadn’t no business crawling like that out of the dark. He was
batty. He asked for it.” He gesticulated widely again. “It was an
accident.”

“You
didn’t see what they did—”

“Look,
Ralph. We got to forget this. We can’t do no good thinking about
it, see?”

“I’m
frightened. Of us. I want to go home. Oh God, I want to go home.”

“It
was an accident,” said Piggy stubbornly, “and that’s that.”

He
touched Ralph’s bare shoulder and Ralph shuddered at the human
contact.

“And
look, Ralph”—Piggy glanced round quickly, then leaned close—
“don’t let on we was in that dance. Not to Samneric.”

“But
we were! All of us!”

Piggy
shook his head. “Not us till last. They never noticed in the dark.
Anyway you said I was only on the outside.”

“So
was I,” muttered Ralph, “I was on the outside too.” Piggy
nodded eagerly. “That’s right. We was on the outside. We never
done nothing, we never seen nothing.”

Piggy
paused, then went on.

“We’ll
live on our own, the four of us—”

“Four
of us. We aren’t enough to keep the fire burning.”

“We’ll
try. See? I lit it.”

Samneric
came dragging a great log out of the forest. They dumped it by the
fire and turned to the pool. Ralph jumped to his feet.

“Hi!
You two!” The twins checked a moment, then walked on.

“They’re
going to bathe, Ralph.”

“Better
get it over.”

The
twins were very surprised to see Ralph. They flushed and looked past
him into the air.

“Hullo.
Fancy meeting you, Ralph.” “We just been in the forest—”

“—to
get wood for the fire—”

“—we
got lost last night.”

Ralph
examined his toes.

“You
got lost after the. . . ”

Piggy
cleaned his lens.

“After
the feast,” said Sam in a stifled voice. Eric nodded. “Yes, after
the feast.”

“We
left early,” said Piggy quickly, “because we were tired.”

“So
did we—”

“—very
early—”

“—we
were very tired.”

Sam
touched a scratch on his forehead and then hurriedly took his hand
away. Eric fingered his split lip.

“Yes.
We were very tired,” repeated Sam, “so we left early. Was it a
good—”

The
air was heavy with unspoken knowledge. Sam twisted and the obscene
word shot out of him. “—dance?”

Memory
of the dance that none of them had attended shook all four boys
convulsively. “We left early.”

PreetiHe
ran stumbling through the thick sand to the open space of rock beyond
the fire. Between the flashes of lightning the air was dark and
terrible; and the boys followed him, clamorously. Roger became the
pig, grunting and charging at Jack, who side-stepped. The hunters
took their spears, the cooks took spits, and the rest clubs of
firewood. A circling movement developed and a chant. While Roger
mimed the terror of the pig, the littluns ran and jumped on the
outside of the circle. Piggy and Ralph, under the threat of the sky,
found themselves eager to take a place in this demented but partly
secure society. They were glad to touch the brown backs of the fence
that hemmed in the terror and made it governable.

“Kill
the beast! Cut his throat! Spill his blood!”

The
movement became regular while the chant lost its first superficial
excitement and began to beat like a steady pulse. Roger ceased to be
a pig and became a hunter, so that the center of the ring yawned
emptily. Some of the littluns started a ring on their own; and the
complementary circles went round and round as though repetition would
achieve safety of itself. There was the throb and stamp of a single
organism.

The
dark sky was shattered by a blue-white scar. An instant later the
noise was on them like the blow of a gigantic whip. The chant rose a
tone in agony.

“Kill
the beast! Cut his throat! Spill his blood!”

Now
out of the terror rose another desire, thick, urgent, blind.

“Kill
the beast! Cut his throat! Spill his blood!”

Again
the blue-white scar jagged above them and the sulphurous explosion
beat down. The littluns screamed and blundered about, fleeing from
the edge of the forest, and one of them broke the ring of biguns in
his terror.

“Him!
Him!” The circle became a horseshoe. A thing was crawling out of
the forest. It came darkly, uncertainly. The shrill screaming that
rose before the beast was like a pain. The beast stumbled into the
horseshoe.

“Kill
the beast! Cut his throat! Spill his blood!”

The
blue-white scar was constant, the noise unendurable. Simon was crying
out something about a dead man on a hill.

“Kill
the beast! Cut his throat! Spill his blood! Do him in!”

The
sticks fell and the mouth of the new circle crunched and screamed.
The beast was on its knees in the center, its arms folded over its
face. It was crying out against the abominable noise something about
a body on the hill. The beast struggled forward, broke the ring and
fell over the steep edge of the rock to the sand by the water. At
once the crowd surged after it, poured down the rock, leapt on to the
beast, screamed, struck, bit, tore. There were no words, and no
movements but the tearing of teeth and claws.

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